Where the Horses Run Wild
by sweet as an elf
Summary: Eliot takes on a job in which he has to chase after a museum curator and return her to a mob who wants to question her. His plan and his promise is that he'll never see her again after he gets her to Cairo. Needless to say,they meet again.


The desert sand stuck to her toes as she walked, squinting against the sun even with her sunglasses on. She held onto the plastic bag she was carrying, wishing more and more with every step she took that she could leave it on the sand and forget about it for the rest of her life. She paused to take a swig from the plastic water bottle that was attached to her shoulder as if it was a purse, held together by the shoelaces she had found lying around back at the pyramids. The desert was expansive, and she knew that she would not be able to reach a decent city on foot anytime soon. No one crossed the Sahara on foot with a black nylon bag on their backs. But she had had no choice.

Mercenary thieves had ransacked the museum by the pyramids at Giza and she'd taken the few authentics they actually kept in stock and fled. Now that she thought of it, she had no idea how she had escaped unnoticed. She switched the bag to her other shoulder and fixed her hat with her other hand. She had stolen it from the gift shop right before she left through the back service door. She glanced towards what she judged to be the west and noticed that the sun was a little lower in the sky. She had been walking for some hours now.

If she turned west towards the sun, she might have a chance of reaching Shabramant before sundown. Most people avoided camping in the desert at night, even with tents and water kept cool in ice. The sand had a tendency to cool down, the winds picked up, and it was hell from there. She needed to keep the artifacts in the bag and, unlike most locals, she didn't have on layers upon layers of light, protective cloths that she could convert into a shelter if need be. Like most native westerners who worked in Egypt, she donned a pair of khaki shorts and a sleeveless top with plenty of sunscreen.

* * *

Eliot had arrived on the scene much, much too late. The small museum inside was completely bare of the beautiful objects it had once displayed and there was no sign of anyone anywhere in the building. Not even the girl he was supposed to find. How far could a curator get, really? He had assumed, obviously wrongly, that the girl who had been reported NOT to have been with the band of mercenaries had simply found a good place to hide. He realized that wasn't true.

He gave a little grunt of annoyance as he did a quick sweep of the place only to find every room quite empty of any human life. He didn't usually take assignments that involved tracking down civilians, as it were, who somehow learned the kind of information a group of mobsters would be interested in. He liked the mean villains who stole things. He could dispose of them as he wished, no special handling required. Quick and easy.

He had taken this job because, well, he was in the area and he thought he could make a quick buck out of this. But things were turning ugly, and fast.

* * *

Maybe it was the famous adagio of supernatural desert senses, but she felt as if she wasn't quite alone. At first she had thought about the creepy crawlers of the sands, but she wasn't afraid enough of them to feel their presence so keenly.

When she got to the top of a dune she turned around and scanned the horizon. Sure enough, unless the sands played tricks on her vision, she saw a small, dark shape in the distance. She was sure it hadn't been there before. Someone was following her. She didn't know what she was more afraid of - one of the mercenaries hunting her down for the artifacts she was carrying, or one of the fabled desert dwellers looking to capture anyone who stepped on their turf. She shuddered at the thought. The stories the natives liked to tell about these dwellers always unsettled her.

She decided she would pick up the pace. Her pursuer was still a long way away, and she was sure that the city outskirts were about an hour away if she kept her pace steady. So she marched on with quiet determination, hoping to make it before darkness settled on the Sahara.

* * *

Although he fully expected to complete this chase before the day was over, Eliot had packed a few things on the horse he had borrowed from one of the tourist attractions at the pyramids. The horse was a beautiful, Iranian black stallion with an iron temper but a physical condition that matched that of his rider. Of course, the stable hands had been reluctant to hand him over the horse, but he had used one of his many fake identities, this time posing as a CIA agent. He promised he would give the horse back.

The creature was brave and he handled the tedious gallop through the sands quite well. Even so, they were not making as much progress as Eliot would have liked. At some point, however, when he was just at the top of a dune he saw something move farther ahead. The figure then stopped, and he realized with triumph that he was looking at the very thing he was searching for. Happy to find that he had chosen the right way, he spurred the stallion on with renewed vigor.

The sun's relatively rapid descent into the west was the only thing that worried him. Even if the curator stopped to rest for the night, the pitch blackness that was sure to settle would make it hard for him to gather his bearings and make his way through what would become very treacherous sand. The flashlight he had was really useless against the massive expanse of open ground that lay ahead. Again, he let out a small groan, at which the horse shot up his ears, listening for any commands his rider might give him.

* * *

She wasn't quite sure when it had happened, but at some point as she crossed a small bridge of sand that connected one dune to the other, she had stopped feeling the sun's warming glare on her skin. That's when she realized that sundown was upon her and she had failed to get to the city in time. She was tired now, and no matter how much she wanted to, she could rush no longer. Her legs felt as if they were made of lead and her head was throbbing. As she walked a little further on, a new, strange sound began to penetrate her consciousness. It was the sound of rustling greenery. She took off her sunglasses and looked down on the ground, there were dark patches of grass that stained the light color of the sand.

Not long after that, she reached the small oasis that had been formed between two large hills of sand. The ground, she supposed, was low enough here to reach the water table. There was even a mound of rock jutting out of the sand wall, next to which ran a spring of clear water. She knelt beside it, the soft moss cushioning her knees as she bent down and splashed her face with the cool liquid. She took advantage of the remaining light to take in her new surroundings. There were even small, thick palms scattered here and there, well fed by the close water and sheltered by the surrounding dunes.

She found a spot where the grass was thickest by the edge of the rock and lay down, with her back against the hard surface. To her amazed and enjoyment, a bird began to sing somewhere so that when she finally fell asleep, the feeling of loneliness that the desert inflicted on most travelers did not enter her slumber.

* * *

Although he had lost sight of her long ago, he kept the horse going in the general direction at a pacing speed. It wasn't quite pitch black yet, but it would be soon. The Iranian stallion breathed harder, but his pride kept him from complaining as he tread over the sand towards the interminable horizon.

Further on, Eliot noticed the faint shadows marks on the sand, distorted by the winds that started to pick up. If he stretched his imagination a little bit, he could even say the marks looked like footprints. He took out the flashlight he had brought along from his pocket and pointed it straight ahead. The marks led over the next dune. At least he had gotten much closer to her.

The horse seemed as startled as he felt by the sudden change in scenery as they descended into the strange oasis. The ground wasn't as soft, kept firm by the grass and weeds that grew all around. Almost as if to make sure he wasn't imagining things, the stallion bent his head and bit into a thick patch of grass, chewing contentedly as Eliot spurred him gently along. There were small trees, which rustled softly as the desert breeze passed through between the dunes.

Eliot listened for every sound, trying to make his hearing more than his sight help him in familiarizing himself with the surroundings. If he listened closely he could hear the sound of running water; the horse instinctively veered towards it. When they reached the spring he dismounted and looked around. The large mass of rock out of which the spring ran was curiously cool whe Eliot touched it, feeling his way around. He took the horse with him, and the animal protested with sharp puffs of air coming out of his nostrils. He was thirsty and Eliot hadn't let him drink his fill yet.

He used his flashlight to look around, and when they got to the other side of the rock, which wasn't as far as he had initially judged, he saw a shape next to the wall of the rock that was most definitely not part of it. When he flashed the beam on the shape he realized it was a human figure. His body grew tense as he prepared for a challenge but as he got closer he realized that it was a rather small person, and whoever it was, was sound asleep. Upon closer inspection he found the plastic bag she had been carrying. He had no way of knowing for sure, but he guessed that this was his missing curator.

He smiled to himself, glad that at least this part of his job was over. Now he had to get her back to Cairo safely, find the man who wanted her and be on his way. He beamed the flashlight to his watch. 11:43 PM. He thought about letting her sleep through the night, but decided against it. If he was to get any rest, he had to know that he could gain her trust so they could cross the desert safely. It would make their journey much, much easier.

* * *

Her eyes stung, even with them shut, as she began to drift back into consciousness. Her first thought was that morning had come and the sun was glaring down at her. As soon as she opened her eyes, however, everything became dark. Blinking a few times, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Somewhere, a voice was calling out to her.

"Hey, psst, are you awake yet? Wake up."

There was a small fire, and a shape was sitting by it, turned towards her. Instinctively, she sat up against the wall, afraid that whoever had been on her trail had caught up to her and now there was nowhere she could run. Still, she grabbed the bag of artifacts and rested against the wall. "Who are you?" she finally said, her voice husky from the lack of moisture in the air.

"My name's Eliot, and I'm here to help you. Are you the curator from the Giza Museum?"

She nodded, unsure of what to do next. There was a chill in the air, and the little clothing she had on did nothing to shield her from the cool breeze. The bright flames from the fire looked inviting.

"Would you mind telling me your name?"

He was gentle and polite. Perhaps a little too much of those things for someone who was out to get her. His voice, too, was rather husky though she was to discover later that its texture never quite changed no matter what environment he was in. "I'm Naia."

"Ok Naia, here's the deal." He poked at the fire with a stick then placed a few dried twigs in the midst of the flames. They made a crackling sound, and he shifted his weight to look at her. "Why don't you get a little closer to the fire, so we can talk. I'll try to make it brief."

She nodded again, and began to move. He seemed harmless enough. She let out a little sigh as she let the warmth of the flames warm her cooled skin. She looked at him, expecting a rehearsed speech about how everything was going to be okay. Whereas before she had seen only his silhouette, with the fire right behind him, now she had a chance to see this strange pursuer of hers in the light. He had rough features, a pair of bright, deep set eyes with arched eyebrows that could have made him seem menacing if he would have been an attacker. He wasn't a small man, but he seemed in control of his every movement and everything else about him indicated that he was self assured. It took her a while to take all of this in, a time which he used to take out a few items from his backpack. One was a water bottle, which he handed to her. He had gone back, before waking her, to the spring to refill it. The other items were a compass and a map.

"I've been told by the authorities to get you back to Cairo, which, even if we find the desert roads, could take some time."

Her head was still in a bit of a haze, but Cairo seemed like a ridiculous choice. "Why Cairo? We must be quite close to Shambramant. That would make more sense."

He shook his head. "No point in going there, even if it is far. The police there don't know about the raid at the museum, and before they find out the bandits could be long gone. The Cairo authorities found out very soon after it happened, so they've had time to prepare. All they need is you, the only witness, to aid them in their investigation." The lies came out easily, and even to his own ears the facts seemed as smooth as silk. The truth of the matter was that the official authorities would not get wind of the incident for at least 36 hours. There were people who would make sure of that.

She nodded, disappointed to realize that she would not take the cool shower and eat the fruit salad she bad been dreaming of as soon as she had hoped. Then she remembered the artifacts and perhaps, for the good of their preservation, going along with this stranger's plan would be a better idea. "Who do you work for?" she asked after she failed to come up with an important organization that would be interested enough in a museum raiding that they would send one of their personnel across the desert to hunt down a witness.

He did not seem the least big unfazed by her question. "That's not really something I can say, but you can trust me to get you back to the city safely."

"Boy, that sure does make me trust you."

Her sarcasm was awarded with a smile. He handed her a rolled up throw and put his own by his side as he scanned the map. Her stomach made a low growling noise, making her aware of the fact that she was hungry. Eliot was silent as he folded up the map and placed it back in his backpack, which he put to the side. "We should probably get some sleep before we head out tomorrow. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

She let her head rest on the makeshift pillow, noting for a brief instant that it smelled quite clean, as if it had been recently washed. She took a peek at his lying figure, and wondered what kind of a throw-carrying man sought out strangers through the desert. Her rest, however, was a lot less fitful as this man filled her thoughts, bringing about a strange sense of security. Before she fell asleep, the feminist in her revolted at these new thoughts she was having but they were soon extirpated by blissful unconsciousness.

She woke up at dawn, with the sun barely attempting to reach the horizon. He seemed to still be asleep, so she took full advantage of that fact to explore the oasis and find a private spot. She met the stallion he had been riding, tied to one of the short palms. He ignored her as she passed him by and continued to graze leisurely at the grass around him.

Eliot was still asleep when she got back to their little camp. She refilled both of their water bottles and took the horse to the spring so he could drink his fill. Who knew how long it would be before he'd see water again. He looked happy enough, so she left him there and went back to the camp. She nudged Eliot's sleeping body with her foot. All he did was roll over. She nudged him again, this time with more insistence.

She gave a little gasp when he locked an iron grip on her foot. He opened those bright eyes of his and stared at her for a moment before he came to. He mumbled a 'sorry' as he stood and fixed his clothes, looking around. He froze for a second when he didn't see the stallion by the palm he had tied him to.

"Where's the horse?" he mumbled again, but a little louder this time.

"I left him by the spring."

"You just left him there? What if he's run away?" He bolted for the spring but, since she didn't hear any further sounds of annoyance, she assumed the horse was still there.

"You don't happen to have packed something to eat, have you?" She yelled after him, knowing he would be within hearing distance.

He came back with the stallion, but this time, he did not tie him up. "Pretzels and power bars. In the bag," he motioned towards it.

They ate some of the food as they left the oasis behind, finally beginning their long journey to Cairo. Eliot hadn't inquired about the plastic bag as she had secured it to the horse, who didn't seem to mind the weight as long as neither of them attempted to ride him. She found it strange that Eliot didn't seem the least bit curious. She was starting to get anxious about the damage the artifacts had sustained and continued to sustain as they bumped against each other in the inadequate transportation container they were in. As a curator, she knew that the damage was unforgiveable, though she doubted anyone else would notice the difference. They were mostly wooden carvings and one or two bronze mini sculptures, nothing too fragile to completely break.

"What's going to happen to my artifacts?" she asked eventually, bored of the silence that was settling between them.

"You'll probably be able to return them to the museum." Another lie. He wasn't quite sure what would happen to her once they got to Cairo and he contacted the man who had hired him for this job.

"That's good. You're American, aren't you?"

He grunted inwards, knowing where this line of questioning would lead to. Questions he didn't have answers to. He nodded.

"Your accent," she said, "Is it Southern? I'm not very good with these things, but it sounds different than what the tourists speak."

"Western, I was born in Texas." Damn. He usually made sure to neutralize his accent when he had to deal with actual people so he gave as little away of his true identity as possible.

* * *

At noon, they reached a dirt road that would make their way a little easier. The sun was in its prime, and they were spared none of its heat as they continued on the road. However, now that they no longer had to worry about valleys and hills, they consumed a lot less energy as they walked over the even ground. She had a chance to observe him further, an activity which was becoming a habit in the absence of conversation or scenery distractions. He wasn't particularly tall, but everything else about him seemed to make up for that fact. He wore jeans, which, she couldn't help but note, must not have been very comfortable in the particular climate in which they were in, with a square-patterned shirt that stuck to his skin because of the high temperatures. There was definitely bulk hiding under the flimsy cloth, but she kept her imagination at bay as they covered another mile. She did not need further bodily agravation.

A little further on, the idea came to him that life would be a lot easier if he didn't have to worry about the sweat pouring out of every pore that was covered by clothes. He unbottoned his shirt and deftly tucked it into his back pocket, happy to be rid of it. He wiped the little sweat that had accumulated over his now unshaven upper lip, and ignored the buzzing that came from his pocket. If he had one rule that he never broke it was to answer the phone while he was in the middle of a job like this one. Keeping her focused on their journey and everything it entailed was paramount to his success. By tomorrow, he judged, much of their strength would be depleted and he needed to keep her as calm as possible.

There was no need for her to use her imagination any longer. There he was, half naked for her to feast her eyes on. She slowed their stop to a pace, and calmly took a swig of her water. "This isn't some sort of stakeout, is it? If it is, you should probably know right now that all I've known my entire life have been museums and Egyptian artifacts. Nothing more, nothing less."

"What are you talking about?"

"You, I mean, come on, look at yourself." Now she was starting to get angry. Either he was completely clueless, or a very good actor. "They don't send people like you after people like me unless there's something more to it. Not on an assignment like this, anyway. You're supposed to gain my trust and then get me to like you and it goes on from there. Am I right?"

He took a step towards her, and she took a half hearted step back. And there it was, the want. He wondered how long it had been since she'd gotten laid.

"Listen to me. I'm going to get you to Cairo and I promise you that you will never see me again. That is all that this assignment entails. Now," he began in softer tone, deliberately letting his accent linger over the right vowels, "this weather's rotten and there's only me and that horse out here so I won't think anything of it if you took off your shirt too. It might level the playing field a bit. Do you think that might make you feel better?"

It didn't take long for her to consider his proposition. She took off her shirt and walked on, glad she had worn a bra with decent coverage. He came up behind her and the tips of his fingers touched the small of her back, sending tingling sensations down her spine. "Who's on the stakeout now?"

* * *

The sun was ruthless and the desert horizon seemed interminable as they walked on. Her entire body was one big ache. By sundown, when they laid out their throws so they could lie on something other than sand, everything felt as if it was made of lead. She had put her shirt back on as the weather cooled, and now she lay down, not sure if she would ever be able to get up again.

It wasn't long before the winds picked up and goosebumps formed over her exposed skin. She looked at the stallion, nicknamed Buck by Eliot since he didn't know his real name, but the horse didn't seem to mind their circumstances. He was probably thirsty and maybe even hungry, but he hadn't made a single sound of complaint since they'd left the oasis. She wondered what would happen to him once they got to the city. Maybe she would make sure he got back to his home.

"We made good progress today," Eliot remarked as he sat down on his blanket, which was at a distance beside hers. "We should be in the city this time tomorrow."

"We've been on the road all day, and not one car passed by." She opened her eyes as she lay on her back, admiring the starlit sky. "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know." He had to admit, he was distracted. That move he'd pulled, earlier in the day, getting so close to her so that he could smell her skin, it wasn't like him. He knew better than to get involved with a hostage, unless it was for the purpose of completing the assignment. It was important, for a situation like this one, that his every action or inaction was done only for the completion of the goal, or for survival. Sex would drain them both of the energy they had left, and to the only way to cross the desert was by means of their own strength. He knew better than to hope that help would somehow arrive.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on green pastures and a refreshing dawn.

"Eliot," he heard her say, her voice small, "I'm cold."

"I don't have any other blankets. Do you want me to call Buck over? He could kneel beside you and he would block the wind..."

"I hate to ask this of you, and I know I have no right, but... Will you hold me?"

He considered her request. No matter how he looked at it, it was a bad idea to get close to her now. But her clothes were extremely inadequate for the desert night, and he doubted she would get much sleep if she was cold.

He made little noise as he stood up and brought his blanket closer to hers. He lay down right next to her, his body parallel to hers, put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

"Thank you," she mumbled as her body relaxed in his warmth, content now that it no longer had to battle the winds alone.

Sometime in the middle of the night Buck moved closer and knelt beside them, cutting off the breeze from disturbing their sleep.

When Eliot awoke before sunrise, she was facing him, still in his arms. He could feel her breath on his cheek, and her palm was pressed against his chest as if she had sought him out in the night. He stayed there for a while longer, trying to clear his mind, keep the mission in focus.

Slowly she, too, awoke, as if the feeling of being watched somehow filtered through to her dreams.

Although there was little light, she could still see the crystal blue of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and his mouth, his lips slightly chapped from the lack of moisture in the air.

A dreamlike feeling of joy vibrated through her body when his lips connected with hers, hungry and insistent, demanding and craving the feel of her own. Her hand went into his hair, which had come untied and spilled over on the blanket. Her legs parted to receive him and not long after she felt his weight over her body, everything else forgotten but this.

His mouth went down to her chest, between the valley of her breasts and above her navel. His movements slowed and even though his hands still caressed her waist she could feel him moving away from her.

He kissed her again, briefly, before he rolled back onto his back and took in a long, drawn out breath. "We can't," he said, simply and resolutely.

"Shit." She put her hand up to her forehead, knowing that the rising temperature in her body had nothing to do with the outside weather.

* * *

They reached Cairo before sundown, the city outskirts looming on the horizon like a desert hallucination. She looked at him as the sun descended back into the desert but the expression on his face betrayed nothing. He padded the stallion as they moved further inward, seeking a chance to call his contact.

They left buck with the nearest policeman they could find. He was familiar with the owners of the horse, since the Giza Pyramids landmark had the largest stable within 200 miles. Now that they were rid of the horse, they were free to seek out a faster mode of transportation other than their feet which, Naia had to admit, would probably not have carried her another 100 yards anyway.

While she was busy finding a cabby that was willing to brave the traffic of the inner city, Eliot took advantage of the opportunity to make the call. He was given the address of a hotel, a room number, and a time at which someone would come to pick Naia up.

As the cab drove them towards the hotel, he'd told Naia that the people he worked for had arranged for them to get some rest before she would have to speak to the authorities and then return to the museum. She was too tired to think too much about anything else but the fact that a clean bed was waiting for her, so she did not question him further.

She made sure to place the bag of artifacts on a chair where she could see it before she fell on the bed and for the next couple of minutes she thought of nothing else but the softness of the matress and the sheets under her.

"I'm going to go get us something to eat. Do you want anything in particular?"

"You're going out? I can't believe you can still stand! But a Fanta would be fabulous."

He nodded even though she couldn't see him. He left his backpack behind, so she wouldn't become suspicious, but made sure to have his phone and the little pocket knife he hadn't told her about with him as he walked out the door.

Even though he knew she wouldn't be there, he returned to the room an hour later. He didn't care about the pack he'd had with him, but he realized that the plastic bag she had insisted on carrying along was still in the room.

* * *

Hours after her capture, the mob that had hired Eliot to fetch her had been informed by an anonymous caller that the raid they had targeted had been the wrong one. They had been able to confirm this information after interrogating Naia Goulas. She was, indeed, just a museum curator who was genuinely concerned for the preservation of a few ancient artifacts.

There had been another raid, not too far from the Giza Museum, at the exact same time. That museum's curator was still missing. It took Eliot almost a day to find him, but when he brought him to Cairo, this time without as much delay, the mobsters were content. As far as he knew, Naia had been let go without incident.

* * *

Try as she might, she did not know how to explain the past 24 hours. Eliot had never come back from his trip out to get food, but instead two dark men who looked like they should've been boxers at clubs had disappeared out of nowhere and whisked her away. Then she'd found out that the people who had taken her suspected her of illegal money laundering and she was supposed to know where a very large amount of their cash was being held. They were not interested in the raid; they were not interested in the people who ransacked the museum. All they wanted was their money, and she could not give it to them.

She had thought they were going to kill her when one of them had come into the basement rooms where they were holding her and opened the door, but she was told to leave. She walked right out of the place without anyone taking a second glance at her. Just like that.

She still had money enough in her pocket to get a cab to her part of town. Her keys had somehow disappeared, but she gave no thought to them as she reached under the mat and used the spare to get into the apartment. She collapsed on the bed and knew nothing else until the next morning, when she woke with a massive headache throbbing around her temples and a faint memory in her head of a man in a cowboy shirt standing in the sun, blue eyes shining.

She knew the shock of the past days would hit soon, but it wasn't there yet. The raid, the desert, Eliot, the mobsters... it all seemed surreal now, though not in a good way. But, of course, there was the feel of his hands and that indescribable feeling that a woman gets when she feels the right kind of weight pressing down on her body. She wondered now if he had reported her missing or if he was in on the whole thing and the trip back to Cairo had all been a big sham. Only one way to find out.

To keep her mind off of everything, she went to work as soon as she felt physically capable of doing so. As it turned out, the raiders had eventually been located by the authorities and had been properly dealt with.

The things that they didn't break were restored in the museum except for a few pieces. A quick sweep of the inventory made her remember the plastic bag and its contents, which she had not been able to retrieve. She was already saying goodbye to them.

At some point she thought about calling the police to the find the truth about Eliot, until she realized that she didn't exactly know what authorities, if any, he had been hired by.

For a very long time after the whole fiasco of the museum robbery Naia had sat outside every evening, comfortable on her cushioned porch lounge chair and thought about the meaning of all of those events. Sometimes she would even revisit in her head some of those moments to try to find an answer, but none ever came. Eventually she learned to give up until the memories steadily drifted away from her consciousness. There was one thing, though, that she could not erase: the image of a pair of big, bright eyes.

* * *

One cool night many moons later she found herself on the dark streets of the city, after an evening out with friends. She was looking for the hotel she had checked herself into the day before. She had some work to do in the inner city, too far from the museum or her own house, so the hotel had been the only decent choice available. Too bad she couldn't find the damn thing.

It was just her luck as she turned a corner to walk right into a fight. A long haired fellow was surrounded by four or five other men, all tense and ready to trample him. He seemed to be a skilled fighter. he took in only a few hits while the men came at him. He was handling himself pretty well until someone pulled out a gun and shot without hesitation, the bullet scraping his shoulder. The pull of the trigger was the shooter's last move before he was knocked out cold. As soon as he was done, the long haired man walked away from the street light, holding his wound and cursing under his breath.

"Are you alright?" she asked him as he came closer. "Do you want me to call the police?"

"No, I'm OK," he mumbled as he passed her by, harmed but not defeated.

Of course she recognized him, how could she not? Husky, low timbered voice and although it was too dark to see his eyes, she was sure that they would be a pretty, now chilly blue. He did not seem to recognize her, so she nodded and let him go, deciding that it was best to just let things be.

* * *

"What the hell happened to you?" Nate asked Eliot as he stormed into the presidential suite Hardison had booked at the Al Hisham hotel.

"Don't want to talk about it."

"But you look like you just got mugged! You're bleeding all over the place. Parker, get in here! Can you patch him up? He's not ready for tonight."

"What? Why do I have to be the one who -"

"Why her? I don't want her crafty little hands all over me. She's weird!"

"Hey!"

"You know you are."

"What's the matter Spencer, 'fraid you'll like it?"

"Hey Hardison, you can s-"

He was interrupted by a big box of Band Aid landing on his lap. "Fix yourself." Parker gave him her best little girl smile, which was quite good, and went back to her video game.

He went to his own room, where he had a more adequate First Aid Kit. He'd seen Naia on the street that night, after the fight, but she did not seem to recognize him so he'd walked away. He'd been on a job of his own, dealing with a couple of crackhead Arabs who had something a friend of his wanted back. Things had gone a little worse than he'd anticipated, which had led to the fight Naia had witnessed.

Now he'd have to deal with the pain while they took care of this casino job Nate had found for them. Or as he'd put it, "sort of stumbled upon."

Tonight, Eliot was to be their man on the floor, watching and observing, ready for things to go bad. He was, once again, their muscle.

* * *

Naia found that, as she lay under the covers trying to relax and fall sleep, sleep just wouldn't come. Maybe some bright lights and a little noise would tire her out, so she put on whatever she could find and took the elevator downstairs, looking forward to some martinis and a few slot machines.

* * *

Eliot touched his earpiece one last time to make sure it was in place before he pressed the C* button on the elevator panel. Tonight he was a charming Texan looking for some familiar fun while away on a business trip. His hat was tipped just a little forward, shirt was open at the collar and the pants he wore sported an elaborate buckle with a bull's horns design.

He sat himself down at a nearby Blackjack table and put down his money as the dealer gave him a pair of cards. The top card was an Ace. He cocked a smile and checked the other one, careful not to give his hand away. He spotted the mark they were after at a nearby table, sipping some beer. He also saw Sophie, dressed in a silvery, small dress walking, or rather gliding towards the man. Her outfit left little to the imagination as the flowy dress molded to her body when she moved. A quick glance at Nate, who was at a Russian roulette table across the room and Eliot knew that this particular job wasn't going to be easy for him. Sophie looked just about ready to be devoured, and it was no secret by whom she really wanted to be devoured.

"Excuse me," he heard her say in the earpiece, "I couldn't help but notice you from across the room. You looked rather lonely and I just think, well, a man like you should never be lonely in a place like this. What is your name?"

Eliot paid little attention to the rest of the conversation while he watched the entrance from the elevators. He was supposed to be on the lookout for a group of big fellows in leather jackets.

He ordered a whiskey so as not to seem suspicious and turned a few rounds of cards, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, depending on what Hardison instructed. So far, no red flags popped up so it all depended on how well Sophie played her game.

The small sip of whiskey he'd taken got stuck in his throat when he saw Naia show up on the casino floor, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt with a "cowgirl" print on the back. Her hair was longer and straighter than he remembered, but her cheeks were still freckled and even here, she looked like she belonged. He put the drink away and tried to figure out how he would deal with the situation if she recognized him.

A beautiful, drunk brunette sat herself down next to him at the Blackjack table and began to play. It took her a some time, but she eventually worked up the courage to smile at him and attempt some conversation. He tried to keep her busy for a while until she eventually picked up on the right signals and left him alone.

The men in leather jackets arrived soon after that, and Eliot excused himself from the Blackjack table. Sophie's conversation seemed to be going well, so there were no problems there. He spotted guns on the group of men.

Nate's voice came through the earpiece, hurried but clear. "Sophie, you might want to find a way to get yourself away from this guy. Trouble's here."

When one of the guys reached for the inside of his jacket, Eliot knew he had only seconds to act before their whole plan could go up in flames. He grabbed a nearby wine pitcher and threw it in the guy's direction. He really was lucky to have been so close. The rest of the group didn't have time to act before he met them straight on. When he was done, their guns were empty and scattered, which gave the team enough time to evacuate and take their the mark with them.

The man, however, seemed to have plans of his own.

He managed to get far enough away before Parker or Nate could get to him, so Eliot went in pursuit.

They didn't get far before Eliot caught up to him, but he'd underestimated the fellow and he managed to get away. By now, of course, the casino was in an uproar and they'd managed to gather a crowd.

The mark pulled out a small revolver, but instead of pointing it at Eliot he grabbed the nearest person and put the barrel of the gun to her throat. Maybe it was because of plain misfortune that Naia happened to be chosen hostage. Her eyes widened when she saw Eliot but no matter how much she struggled, she couldn't escape the grip of the other man.

"Move and I shoot. And you," he pointed with the gun at Eliot, "You stay away from me, unless you want an innocent person dead."

Eliot put up his hands in a gesture of surrender, wondering where the hell Parker was. She could've been useful now. "Let her go," he told the man, trying to ignore the instructions Nate was giving everyone else through their earpieces. "She's got nothing to do with why you're here, so you let her go now, before you do something you might regret."

"_I_ might do something _I_ might regret? Maybe you bozos should've thought of that before you set yourself up in a place like this. Who are you? CIA? KGB? NSA?"

He was scared, and he felt cornered. Eliot took a step closer. "We don't work for any governments. We just want to help. Now, want to hand me that gun?"

"Not until you tell me who you are!"

* * *

The cold steel of the gun was beginning to bruise her skin as the man kept it pressed against her throat. Eliot kept a steady gaze at the man who was holding it as he got closer and closer. When she saw him reach for the gun she closed her eyes, expecting the man to pull the trigger any time. Instead of nothingness she heard the sound of bullets fall on the plush carpet while Eliot held her tight against him with one arm. His hair, which came down to the nape of his neck, tickled her nose.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded and was ready to move away, but he did not let go. "What in the world are you doing here, of all places?" he asked her as a tall man with short, dark hair nodded in his direction while he took the man who had been holding the gun away. "Shouldn't you be locked in a museum, taking care of dead mummies?"

She had a hard time believing that what she was experiencing right now was not a dream. Her brain was too busy adjusting to its new environment to answer any of his questions. His closeness was distracting, which made her wish they were not somewhere where others could see them while she kicked herself free from his grip, then proceed to hurt him in any other way she could.

"Let me go."

"What?"

"You heard me. Let me go before I reach down with my hand, right here in front of everyone, and make you wish you never grew into a man."

Hardison's snicker that came through the earpiece made Eliot hate the small device with every fiber of his being, and not for the first time in his life.

"Now you listen to me," he began, letting his western accent unfold, "You may not want to hear this, but I did not put you in this situation and it really isn't my fault that you had to be the wrong curator I was sent after to chase through the desert."

"Oh yeah, well it really isn't my fault either that you had to take off your shirt that day and get my brain all screwed up."

"If I remember correctly, you weren't the only frustrated one."

"Well it sure as hell didn't seem like you were! And what the hell happened to you after you went out of the hotel room? They came and took me away, tired and hungry and thirsty as I was and they interrogated me, Eliot, for hours! They asked me questions I had no answers to, and you know what, they didn't believe me! Do you know what that's like? Have you ever felt that kind of terror, thinking you could die any second just because you can't give someone the answers they want to hear? It took me months to forget about how scared I was."

"Look, I didn't --"

"Just tell me one thing. Was it your fault? Did you bring me back to Cairo so they could take me aw--"

The rest of her sentence got muffled by his mouth as it pressed against her own in a familiar kiss.

"What -- are -- you -- doing?" she asked as he let her breathe.

"Proving to you that you really need to shut up now."

"Oh really, and why --"

He kissed her again, nearly making her melt, right then and there. "The way you're kissing me back, it's like the way a diabetic eats sweets in his dreams. You don't hate someone and kiss them like that."

"You never answered my question."

"Would it really make a difference if you knew?"

"You tell me."

"I'll explain, but not here. Come upstairs with me."

By now, the casino's security had quieted any curious onlookers, and things had gone back to normal. It really wasn't all that unusual for fights to start or for people to just take out guns and point them at strangers, at least not in this part of the world. Naia realized that they were surrounded by people, yet no one paid any real attention to them as they parted and he took her hand. He headed for the elevators.

She steeled herself for a serious discussion, but as soon as the door to her room closed behind him, things took a completely different turn.

Despite his cool demeanor, he looked disheveled from the fight he'd been in earlier. His hair wasn't as tidy as he usually kept it, a few buttons on his shirt were undone, and his cowboy hat was in his hand. He was also clean shaved, his lips looked they'd just been kissed and, well, those eyes looked right at her.

"So," she said, trying to ignore the pull that she felt towards him, "talk."

His hands were on her before she could really think. They touched and felt, and there was no stopping them. Buttons flew everywhere as she pulled apart the shirt he wore, surprised her strength could do that much damage to a piece of fabric. To her dismay, he wore a black wifebeater underneath, but that was quickly gone too.

He let her undress the rest of him while his skillful hands somehow took her clothes off her, item by item. She found herself completely naked. A smile was on his face as his hands cupped her face. She was back in the desert, and he was beside her, looking ridiculously good with his shirt in his back pocket.

An amazing thing happened, when he had her down on her back. He hesitated and she had the chance to take in his features and wonder how she had been so lucky and unfortunate to meet this man.

* * *

When she woke up the next morning, there was an arm across her stomach and the feel of a warm body next to her. His face was very close to hers when she turned to look at him. He was strikingly beautiful, even like this, in the bright sunlight. There was no denying that. She could trace the curves of the muscles on his arms, which did not look at all like gym muscles, the kind that look bulky in all the wrong places because they are completely useless. These were bulky in just the right places because they'd gotten there from actual use. His skin was a little tan, so she assumed he might have spent some time at a beach not too long ago. There were also scars, not too many, but enough to tell stories about the kind of situations he'd gotten himself into. They didn't look like the kind of scars that people get when they climb fences or jump off windows. His right shoulder, the one she couldn't get to, had a white strip of cotton around it. As much as she would have liked to stare at him all day, the needs of her body beckoned, and she had to abandon the comfortable covers.

He was still sleeping when she came out of the shower. It was still early, but soon enough she would have to go to work and face the fact that their night together might have been a one time deal. At least a good bye was in order.

She woke him with a kiss; a smile was on his lips as he opened his eyes. She'd forgotten how striking they were in the sunlight. She kissed him, sleepy as he was and attempted to tell him that she had to go, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Her heart broke a little bit as he gathered her in his arms, almost as if he understood. "Go," he whispered in her hair, "you won't have to see me again, I promise. I'll only cause you trouble."

* * *

Her spirits were gloomy as she went about her work, looking up artifacts, trying to find donors who wanted their pieces showcased in museums. It was tedious but oh-so-necessary work. She dreaded going back to that same, empty hotel room.

* * *

"So, Eliot, who's the girl?" Nate asked him when he walked through the door, as he munched on a croissant.

"No one important. How's our mark?"

"He's fine, we got him to the right people. So, what was she doing here, of all places? Was she looking for you?"

"No, I don't know but I seriously doubt it. She's just a museum curator."

Nate nodded, seemingly satisfied by the answer. He went back to reading the newspaper.

"So did she ever, you know, make good on her threat to un-man you --"

"Hardison..."

"Alright, alright, I'm just saying. It sounded pretty serious. Are you ok, man?"

He let out a low growl and craftily shoved a finger in Hardison's ribcage when no one was looking. It wouldn't dibilitate him, but it would hurt like hell for a good while. They exchanged looks as Eliot headed for the shower, but they both knew that hitter could take over geek in a fistfight anytime.

"You know, it really isn't fair how you just sleep with these girls and then just leave them to their fates once you're done with them."

Parker's comment stopped him in his tracks. "What girls?"

"Well, I assume there are others. She couldn't have been the first one. A guy like you thinks he can just do whatever he wants with women. The worst part is, whatever that 'whatever' is, they always enjoy it, don't they?"

"Yeah, well, look, I'm sorry if the fact that you actually get to see what my other life is like and that I'm a little sloppier than you in keeping everything in my life so damn compartmentalized."

"Aw, are you calling me neat? That's so nice! Anyway, that's not what I'm talking about. These women, you know, they have feelings. They might not have such dynamic lives as yours to keep their mind off the man they left behind or who left them behind. All I'm saying is that you should be more careful. It's not nice, what you do."

"Thanks Parker, I'll keep that mind."

* * *

There was one other thing he had to do. It wasn't hard, with his thieving skills, to get the chest of artifacts up to her room before she came back from work. He'd made sure they were well packed for traveling, so their condition had remained intact and they would be able to go back on the museum shelves with minimal restoration having to be done. In the chest, he also left her a note, which was, as he realized later, extremely uncharacteristic of him. _You'll find me where the horses run wild_, he'd written and signed the note with _E. Spencer_.


End file.
